By Vanessa Vanaria
There once lived a poet, who lived in a small coastal town. It was quiet, with not many tourists. The residents cared for the town, keeping it in well-kept condition. The buildings, parks, and beaches were maintained. Not in a pristine way, but in a way that showed it was given love. Everyone found their place and purpose, each resident with an occupation that gave them a sense of daily accomplishment.
The poet was happy and content while living with his wife in their quaint house. The home itself wasn’t anything impressive, but it gave the personality of the people who lived in it. There were old photos of the two, seashells lining the windowsills, sand still caught somewhere in the carpets, no matter how much you cleaned. In the small town, the poet was well respected. Although he never reached fame anywhere outside of town, he was still pleased with himself.
One day, the poet collapsed while writing in his workspace, his wife sending him to the local hospital in frantic worry. Once there, the doctor informed the couple that the poet was diagnosed with a terminal illness that could not be cured.
When the poet found out, he spiraled into depression. His former days of finding wonder in the world and writing about it in his poems were behind him. He no longer took fascination of the crashing waves, of the grass bending to the wind, and of the natural world changing and evolving before his very eyes. He feared death, he feared losing his wife, and he feared that he could not write again.
Every morning he woke up, staring at the black ink pen. It taunted him, as he wanted to write more but couldn’t. He had so many more ideas but no hope left. What point was there in viewing the beauty of the world when it would be ripped away from him in a matter of months? The townsfolk worried as the poet stopped publishing, and his wife worried of the poet’s declining health, both physically and mentally.
During one particular night, the poet could not sleep. He went outside, walking along the cliff sides of the beach area. He sat himself on the ledge, looking down at the jagged rocks below. He contemplated jumping. He saw no purpose in letting this sickness overtake him, in letting himself waste away. If he wasn’t producing poetry, then he wasn’t fulfilling his purpose anymore.
In a brief moment, he was close to nearly pushing himself off the ledge but stopped as a flicker of light caught the corner of his eye. He looked up, the night sky was so clear and vast, almost like the ocean below him. In all his years, he had never seen anything like it. It was a meteor shower, with sparkles of dazzling lights appearing and disappearing just as fast.
He looked at the calm waters of the ocean below, seeing the meteor lights reflecting off of the waves and water itself. It was like two worlds had collided, two heavens meeting. A grin broke into his worn features, and he reached inside his jacket, hastily pulling out his notepad and pen that he always carried as a force of habit. He scribbled ideas, laughter rumbling in his chest as he basked in the awe-inspiring scene.
Since then, the poet spent his remaining months living his life. He wrote again, he took his wife out on dates like they did when they first met, he read to children at the library, and he published every work he had ever written. For the beauty of life did not cease to exist, and he did not cease to remain a poet until the very end.
Velocity 
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